


Silver Lining

by Rshiel



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Captivity, Fantastical Racism, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Slow Build, Werewolf!Graves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rshiel/pseuds/Rshiel
Summary: Updated summary:
Just before his plans were to come to fruition, revealing the magical world through death and destruction, Gellert Grindelwald arranged for Director Graves, whom he was keeping prisoner in his own home (for Polyjuice Potions and the sadistic pleasure of having someone to torment) to be turned into a werewolf. Grindelwald knows exactly how the American wizarding society treats magical beasts, and so even when Grindelwald has moved on, Graves will never be allowed to forget.
Now, plans foiled, the Statute of Secrecy still holds, and Grindelwald himself is in MACUSA custody, but Percival Graves's life is still in ruins. Weakened from months in captivity, physically and mentally, and burdened by the knowledge of his new condition, strange instincts and crippling nightmares, as well as the heartbreaking realisation that no one noticed that he had been replaced, Graves struggles to move on. It's hard, though, when everywhere he turns, he sees fear, suspicion, distrust, and worst of all, pity.
Everywhere except for in Newt Scamander, the stranger who unmasked his imposter, who rescued him. Newt Scamander, who seems to look at Graves and see something interesting. Something fantastic.





	1. Prelude - Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme prompt http://fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/459.html?thread=24779#cmt24779 which in short asked for Original!Graves/Newt, with Original!Graves having been turned into some sort of creature by Grindelwald as a general dick move, because he could, and for Graves to be pleasantly distracted from having his life ruined and everyone hating him by Newt being his usual fanboy self for all magical creatures, which now conveniently includes Graves.  
>    
> Right, so, I haven't really ever written any proper fanfic before, but this prompt bit me like a rabid plot bunny and would not. let. go.
> 
> I apologise in advance to the OP that this might not initially look like what was asked for, as I may have gone a wee bit overboard with the angsty backstory, but I swear I'm working my way towards the happy, fluffy, fanboy-and-matchmaking bits, honest! I just started thinking about the logistics of the actual 'turning', and things got... long... and complicated :P I may not usually write, but I suffer from extremely verbose self perpetuating head-canons that make ridiculous demands in the continuity department.

A subtle shift shuddered through the building as the man who wore his face returned to his home.

His prison.

Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security and Head Auror at the MACUSA, straightened as best he could in his bonds, magical and mundane alike, and strained to clear his head and listen for any hint of his captor's current mood. Forewarned is forearmed, as the saying goes.

Not that it was like to make any difference whatsoever. He hadn't had much luck when he _had_ been armed, had he? And he hadn't been armed in quite some time now.

Out in the hallway, the man who wore his face, and carried his wand, both seemingly with more confidence than Graves suspected he'd ever mustered for himself, was speaking with someone.

Not alone today, then.

Not shouting, or cursing, or otherwise making his displeasure known through terrifyingly casual acts of violence upon inanimate (or animate) objects, either.

Closing his eyes in his darkened room, Graves dared to entertain the hope that these were good things. Guests were usually safe. Perhaps he would be left alone tonight.

Not many guests in Director Graves's apartment would expect to be confronted with a sorry-looking doppelgänger chained up in the living room, after all, and his gaoler was nothing if not meticulous in his attention to the details of his assumed identity. Yes, guests were usually safe.

Not that there weren't exceptions, of course.

He'd never even caught a glimpse of the potions master, but he had certainly suffered the consequences of her visit.

Repeatedly.

Outside in the hall, the voices and accompanying footsteps were moving leisurely closer. His own, disconcertingly familiar, sharp and assured, and another as yet unknown, too soft to make out through the door and through the fog that seemed to cloud his mind.

Perhaps it was one of his, of Graves's, colleagues. Perhaps they would proceed to the kitchen, share a pot of coffee, discuss a case. Then they would say their goodbyes and his colleague ( _not friend, never friend, a friend would have noticed, surely?_ ) would leave again, none the wiser, but safe in their ignorance, and Graves would be left alone.

Alone, still trapped, still drugged. Still infinitely better than the alternative. Nothing good ever came of attracting his imposter's attention. It was better to remain alone.

Holding on to that notion like a mental shield, Graves listened and waited for the voices and the footsteps to continue down the hallway, hoping to hear the tap run, cups clinking, chairs scraping against the floor, and paperwork being spread over the tabletop.

The footsteps came to a halt far too soon.

No such luck today, then.

The conversation continued uninterrupted as the door handle turned smoothly and the door swung open on well oiled hinges.

It hadn't even been locked. The implication stung.

The fact that Graves no longer doubted that the bastard was correct in his assumption that his prisoner would never be in a position to take advantage of that fact stung even more. Maybe once, before, he could have, with a wand or without, but it was getting harder and harder to convince himself of that.

Not that it helped to cry over spoilt potions.

It made no difference now, either way.

The light in the hall was warm and muted, but even so, it hurt Graves's eyes as it cast the two approaching figures in into sharp contrast in the open doorway. Graves screwed his eyes shut harder, and tried to pretend it didn't make him feel wretched and pathetic.

The man with his face, his wand, and _his goddamned coat_ billowing ominously behind him in an impossible wind strode confidently into the room, lighting it up with a casual snap of his fingers before crouching down in front of his captive. Try as he might, Graves could not keep from flinching, pressing as far into the corner as his bonds would allow.

He didn't get very far.

"Not pleased to see me, Director?" Gellert Grindelwald asked mildly.

It didn't stop him from giving it his level best. Eyes shut, shoulders tense, head turned resolutely away, he waited to find out what new horrors were to be visited upon him this time.

"Not feeling talkative today?"

He remained silent. Talking back was seldom conducive to his wellbeing. Again, there were exceptions, days when staying silent only enraged the dark wizard, but Graves decided to take his chances. He could feel the madman's steady gaze on him, assessing him. Graves forced himself to keep breathing steadily, all the while bracing himself for a hex or a curse to be thrown in his face for his belligerence. Grindelwald must have been in an unprecedentedly good mood, however, as he suddenly rose, and, by the sound of things, simply sat himself down in Graves's armchair across the room.

"Well, my dear Director, whether or not you feel up to making conversation, I do have a few matters to speak to you about," Grindelwald announced cheerfully. "You see, my business in your magnificent city looks to be coming to a successful close in the near future, which regrettably means that our acquaintance must needs come to an end."

Graves choked on his carefully measured breaths.

Well, it was no surprise, really, was it? There was no way he would just be released once Grindelwald was done inciting terror and anarchy in Wizards and No-Majes alike, in Graves's body. He'd known it from the start, as soon as the staggering unlikelihood of escape or rescue became apparent, yet it still managed to leave him reeling, now that it was actually happening.

Throat constricting, heart like icy lead, he finally opened his eyes to look upon the man who was no doubt about to pronounce his death sentence. Perhaps that explained the visitor.

An executioner.

"Ah, with us at last, Director? Good," Grindelwald smiled. It was an ostensibly genial expression, but with hidden edges of malice, like black ice on pavement or sharp rocks just under a still water surface. Graves hoped that he had never looked like that when he smiled at someone, that it was all attributable to the ruthless extremist wearing his face, seeping through the cracks in the facade. He wasn't entirely able to convince himself.

"You see, I feel like I've been neglecting you recently, and I should like to make that up to you with a parting gift of sorts," the lunatic continued, gesturing towards his associate, still stood just inside the door. "I've brought some company for you! Do you recognise him, perchance?"

Puzzled, Graves looked over at the stranger, really seeing the man for the first time. Eyes now more accustomed to the light, after Merlin only knew how long in oppressive darkness, he saw a regular looking man in nondescript clothing. Medium build, average height, brown-grey, unkempt hair and a beard to match, but something about him rang a bell. A funeral bell, that tolled for blood and death, for missing persons reports and brutal crime scenes, for late nights and trails gone cold. 

And his eyes were _hungry_.

"Do you know what tonight is, Director?" Grindelwald asked suddenly, rising from the armchair and sauntering towards the covered windows.

Graves hadn't known what day it was for weeks now. Perhaps months. Constant darkness, irregular meals, and sleep deprivation will do that. Crucio curses and mind numbing potions don't exactly help, either.

"Thursday," he growled, because why the fuck not. Not like he had anything to lose at this point.

Grindelwald chuckled, seeming genuinely amused, as if pleased that there was still something left to break in the proud, headstrong Auror on the floor behind him.

"Close," he murmured. "It is in fact Tuesday. But more importantly, Director Graves..." He gestured grandly at the windows, as if unveiling a painting, and suddenly the night sky was once more visible in all its grandeur.

"Tonight is the night of the full moon."

And then the bell tolled deafeningly loud, for horrified realisation, and its echoes sang in the silence of lost chances and doomed futures, as the werewolf smiled at his captive prey with undisguised desire and Grindelwald turned to leave.

"Play nice, now!" he admonished cheerfully as he passed the werewolf, whose gaze had yet to leave Graves's cowed form.

When the beast gave no answer, he paused, and in a flash had the monster's throat in an iron grip. Pulling him close, he spoke with beguiling gentleness.

"I need you to remember our bargain, my friend. You can do what you want with our dear Director, as long as he survives the ordeal. Anything at all, whatever fancies your primitive animal instincts can conjure up, but he must live. That is the entire point. Are we clear?"

The werewolf held the dark wizard's gaze for an indeterminable long moment before finally averting his eyes in submission. Grindelwald retained his grip for a few heartbeats longer before letting go just as suddenly as he had reached out, nodding to the werewolf, and stepping out of the room. He turned in the doorway and flashed a smile at Graves.

"I hope my gift is to your liking, Director. Not something you already have, I trust? No?"

The stunned Auror made no reply.

"Well, I'm sure you'll come to appreciate it in time. I shall be around in the morning, to ensure we don't experience any unfortunate... _accidents_."

With that, Gellert Grindelwald was gone, with his face, his wand, his coat, and his future, leaving Percival Graves alone, chained on the floor, drugged and disoriented, with a werewolf about to turn.

This time, he locked the door.


	2. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Hungarian Horntails, guys! I am absolutely blown away by all the positive feedback and I can only hope that I can live up to you wonderful people's expectations!
> 
> So, here we go with some more angst, but at least there's some comfort to go with the hurt now :) For a given value of comfort, at least.

Shortly thereafter, everything changed.

Not quite in the revolutionary splendour promised by Gellert Grindelwald, but for Percival Graves, it was a paradigm shift, nonetheless.

He was found.

_Rescued._

It was hard to think of it as such.

He didn't remember how it had happened. The days following the night of the full moon were a haze of pain and and confusion, and frequent losses of consciousness. Graves supposed that might have been a mercy. Grindelwald obviously kept to his promise (his threat) not to let him die, though.

He was quite certain that was not a mercy.

Later, in an uncomfortable bed in the secure section of the MACUSA hospital wing, he was told the story of his retrieval in the uncharacteristically halting words of a Madam President who was struggling to meet his eyes. Whether it was out of guilt over her own ignorance or disgust and distrust at his new _condition_ , he couldn't tell.

He suspected the latter, and found it hard to blame her.

He was frankly surprised that she could stomach to stay in the room with him for long enough to relate to him the particulars of his imposter's downfall. It made him wonder what threats and promises had been directed at the medical staff, as there had yet to be any 'unfortunate _accidents_ ', as it were.

Apparently, it wasn't even their own people who'd cracked the case in the end.

She told him, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, of a foreigner, an Englishman with a suitcase full of magical creatures, of his (of Grindelwald's, yes, of course, not _his_ ) sentencing of said man to death for his sentimental obliviousness regarding his dangerous contraband ( _would he have done the same? Would he now?_ ) and of his subsequent escape.

Of his efforts to clear his own and his creatures' names, how he'd realised the truth of the obscurus.

Of how he'd risked life and limb to protect Wizards as well as No-Majes, even the Obscurial boy, whom Grindelwald ( _not Graves, he'd never, no, he wouldn't-_ ) had manipulated, used, tormented, and cast aside, and how he alone had seen through Grindelwald's disguise.

Newt Scamander.

A _stranger_.

A man he'd never even _met_ had seen through the facade, had recognised the madman underneath the borrowed face, had restrained and unmasked him. In _days_ , he had done what none of his colleagues, superiors, or acquaintances had managed to do in _months_.

The stranger had then apparently miraculously enabled the Obliviation of the entire No-Maj population of New York, thus singlehandedly protecting the Statute of Secrecy and saving the Wizarding World from the brink of discovery and disaster.

And then he'd found Graves.

Seems he'd asked one of his fantastically illegal beasts to track the true owner of Grindelwald's wand, and promptly rushed off, straight for Graves's apartment, with Porpentina Goldstein chasing after him. Within the hour, Aurors and Mediwitches and wizards were called to the location, and under the stern supervision of the Madam President herself, Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security and Head Auror, was rescued from his captivity in his own home and transported to the MACUSA medical facilities posthaste.

Graves owed this Newt Scamander his life.

What was left of it, anyway.

An awkward silence filled room once Madam Picquery had finished. She still wouldn't look at him properly. Perhaps it was the scar. He hadn't seen it yet, but he could _feel_ it, remembered the claws scraping down the side of his face, narrowly missing his left eye. It must look ghastly.

It also served to broadcast his _condition_ to anyone who so much as glanced his way.

That was probably the point.

"Percival, I..." The President hesitated. Taking a deep breath, she finally met his eyes. Her own were haunted and hard, with a tearful shine to them. It unnerved him almost as much as the previous avoidance had. Maybe even more, yet he found himself unable to look away.

"I cannot express how deeply sorry I am for what has happened to you. For what we let happen to you."

Graves made no reply.

There was nothing to say.

"I, that is to say _we_ , the MACUSA, will of course provide whatever assistance we can to aid you in your recovery," she continued.

There was no recovering from this.

"I've signed off on two weeks medical leave of absence to start with, but if you need more time, you only have to ask."

What?

"And I fully understand that you likely won't be able to work full shifts for some time, but I want you to take all the time you need."

She wasn't firing him? _Why wasn't she firing him?_

Head reeling, he managed to find his voice, rough and harsh from disuse.

"But _why_?" he croaked. "I'm..."

_Broken?_

_Useless?_

_Dangerous?_

Eyes suddenly flashing with familiar fire and determination, President Picquery sat up straighter, at once looming larger at his bedside. Graves struggled against the urge to cower before her temper. 

He was marginally successful.

" _You_ , Mister Graves, are Director of Magical Security at this Congress, _my_ Congress, and the best Auror this country has seen in decades, and I will _not_ have you taken from me. Do you understand me?"

She was mad. Utterly mad. Did she not see?

Did she not understand?

"You _can't_ ," he choked out.

Nothing made sense. The room was spinning, the only steady point the President's flinty eyes that now refused to let him go. "If people _knew_ \- when they find out, you'll be _ruined!_ You can't risk that, not for me, I'm not-"

"Don't you _dare_ say it!" Her voice was like a crack of thunder, stopping him short, breath catching in his throat. "Don't you even dare _think_ it!"

Seeing how he flinched at her harsh tone, she paused, visibly restraining herself. "Listen to me, Percival," she continued in a softer voice. "You are worth every effort we can spare, and I will not let anyone, not even _you_ , stand in the way of that."

For a long, tense moment, the President and the Director regarded one another in absolute silence.

It was a battle of wills which Graves harboured no hopes of winning. He lowered his gaze and tilted his head back into his pillows.

"I'm sorry, Percival," the President murmured. "That was uncalled for."

She reached for his hand.

Without thought, he pulled sharply away, startling both himself and her. Closing his eyes, he took a breath. Then another.

When he chanced a glance in her direction, her eyes had regained their haunted look from earlier.

"I apologise. I should have realised." She slowly pushed her chair back and rose to leave. "I am so very sorry, Percival."

Not as sorry as he was.

"I'll leave you to your rest," she said quietly, walking to the door, where she turned and once more met his eyes with smouldering determination.

"I meant what I said, Percival. I _will not_ lose you. Only those directly involved in your rescue know of your condition, and I mean for it to stay that way. I will _not_ lose you to this."

And with that declaration delivered, she swept out of the room, posture regal and head held high. Graves sighed as the Auror stationed outside his room closed and locked the door behind her.

Ever the idealist, was President Seraphina Picquery.

And ever the cynical realist, it was Graves's duty to keep her ambitious plans in the realm of the possible.

_This would never work._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My initial plans were for this chapter to cover more ground in terms of story, but in the end, it grew into a chapter of its own. Newt shall have to wait in the wings for a little while longer, I'm afraid.
> 
> By the way, am I the only one who thinks the name Seraphina Picquery is ridiculously reminiscent of Serafina Pekkala, from His Dark Materials, especially given that they're both witches in positions of power?
> 
> Damn, now I've awakened the desire for a Dæmon!AU...


	3. Returning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your lovely feedback, everyone! It really brightens my day :3
> 
> //EDIT: Chapter has been edited for, um, what's the opposite of Brit-pick'd? Americanised? Anyway, super obviously British swearing and emphatic words have been changed :P

Graves attempted to leave the hospital wing as soon as he was reasonably certain his own two legs would carry him out the door.

Preferably a fair few feet longer, but he'd settle for just _out_ \- out of this new prison. He couldn't stand to be in the company of the medical staff for a single moment longer than was absolutely necessary, and he was well aware that the sentiment was mutual.

They weren't ever overtly hostile and never failed to carry out their duties with an admirable degree of professionalism, but it was impossible not to notice the way they never met his eyes, never lingered in his presence. Instead, they held hushed conversations just out of earshot (or what they considered earshot, anyway), throwing less than subtle glances his way.

Some were distrustful.

Graves could understand that, even if it irked him. They were the sensible ones.

They spoke quietly of doubts and precautions, of wolfsbane and reinforced holding cells.

Some were fearful.

He supposed he could understand that too, irrational though it was. It was weeks before the full moon, and he was bloody _bedridden_ , for Merlin's sake. It set him on edge, in a way he couldn't quite identify, every time they tensed and cowered if he so much as sat up straighter on his stiff mattress, each time they hurried from the room, scattering like pigeons spotting a falcon. 

They whispered furtively of violence and terror, of silver bullets ( _groundless no-maj superstition_ ) and of the mindless fury of rabid beasts.

And some were full of pity.

They were the most well-meaning of his new wardens. They were also the ones Graves was most desperate to escape. He couldn't stand their mournful eyes, their hollow words of reassurance, their repeated attempts at comforting touches that made his skin crawl and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

They commiserated over his poor luck, how it was such a shame, such a tragedy, and how they were so very, very _sorry_.

He had to get out.

After three days, he'd asked to be released. He'd been gently but firmly refused. Their healthy fear of the Madam President had apparently still outweighed their unease over the monster in their care. Granted, he would not particularly relish the thought of being in their shoes should it come to light that the Director of Magical Security had collapsed and done himself injury in his own home after they'd stated him fit for release.

After five days, Head Mediwitch Bennett, part of the distrustful clade, had reluctantly relented.

At his request, his coat and wand were requisitioned out of lock-up, thankfully long since processed through the Archives for Criminal Magical Evidence, and a set of clothes was retrieved for him from his apartment, most likely by some unfortunate Auror intern.

As he stood on unsteady feet, partially propped up against the bed for support, and struggled out of the hospital robes and into his own familiar somber ensemble, he had to admit - if only to himself - that the medical staff's lingering fear of his imminent collapse was not wholly unfounded.

His fingers fumbled with the buttons and he almost gave up on his tie as an unnecessarily evil lost cause while his legs and back protested even that limited amount of physical exertion. From the other side of the privacy curtain, Bennett was relaying to him the terms of his release.

"I'm not entirely comfortable letting you out of my sight just yet, you know," she began sternly.

Of course she wasn't. She'd probably rather see him down in the detainment blocks, on a diet of wolfsbane decoctions and gruel.

"You're malnourished and sleep deprived, and there's only so much even Skele-Gro and Wound-Knit can do for such extensive physical damage as what you've suffered, Mister Graves."

There were no grand titles here. In Alyssa Bennett's domain, you were either her subordinate, her patient, or an exceedingly transient visitor, no matter who ( _or even what_ ) you were outside of it, and neither category would be tolerated to disrupt the manner in which she ran her ward. Graves had always admired such conduct on principle, but found it a lot less palatable now that he was on the receiving end of the arrangement.

"If I had my way, you would not be allowed out of that bed for at least another week, and if by then I thought that you could manage your own shoelaces without toppling over, I _might_ consider letting you continue your recovery at an unsupervised location."

If he'd had the strength to spare, he would have rolled his eyes at her disparaging assessment of his fortitude. Instead, his knees chose that supremely inopportune moment to finally buckle fully, promptly depositing him back down onto the bed with an audible thud.

Right. Maybe she did have a point.

As if in answer, a deep sigh was heard from beyond the fabric shielding him from view. For a nonverbal sound, it did a terrifyingly good job of conveying the sentiment of ' _I told you so_ '.

Graves swiftly decided against voicing any complaints, as that would surely only draw Bennett's attention to his less than flawless victory over enemies such as neckties and gravity, and give her ample cause to carry through with her threats.

"I'm neither blind nor stupid, however, and I can see what staying here is doing to your nerves, and to my staff," she continued after a moment, when it became apparent that he wasn't going to dispute her evaluation. "It's clear that your current circumstances aren't doing you any favours, and with Madam Picquery's consent, I'm willing to let you attempt to fend for yourself, provided that you report to me daily, until such a time as I am satisfied that it is no longer necessary. Now, are you decent? I want to look at you when you pretend to be sincere as you swear that you'll take it easy."

Choking out a surprised bark of almost-laughter, Graves gestured wandlessly at the curtain in reply. It moved rather less far than he would have hoped, but quite far enough to reveal Mediwitch Bennett's disapproving frown.

"And I'll have none of that, Mister Graves," she tutted, briskly yanking the curtain open the rest of the way. "You will use both your wand and the proper incantations, or you will use no magic at all. I won't have you jeopardising your recovery over your puerile penchant for flashy displays of power."

Caught confusedly between outrage and embarrassment, Graves settled for reaching meekly for his wand, in an attempt at mollifying the his exasperated caretaker.

"Well? Say something, man!"

"Yes, ma'am," he muttered, trying to appear suitably chastised. _Puerile, really?_

"And don't you even think about apparating anywhere. You'll get no sympathy from me if I have to come out and splinch you back together!"

"No, ma'am," he agreed with a shudder. Splinching was nasty business, and a ridiculous amount of paperwork to boot.

"And you'll promise to pretend to at least try to get some rest?"

"I...- Yes, ma'am, I will," he replied hastily, not quite sure what exactly he was agreeing to - the promising, the pretending, or the trying - but an affirmative of some sort seemed to be in order if he wanted to ensure his freedom. 

"Well, then, I think we're done here for now, Mister Graves. Follow me, there are some things you'll need to take with you."

From a cabinet in the corner of the room, demonstratively unlocked by Bennett with a flick of her wand and a clearly intoned _Alohomora_ , Graves was provided with a multitude of flasks, bottles, and jars.

"Dittany salve for your wounds," she said, handing him a pale green ceramic jar. Two stoppered conical flasks followed, one a pale purple, the other clear. "Valerian extract, for a restful sleep, and infusion of Asphodel, if that's not enough. Careful with the latter."

Next was a predictably red bottle of Blood-Replenishing Potion, a jug of soothingly blue Calming Draught, and an Invigoration Draught in an elaborate turquoise flask. Lastly, with strict admonishments regarding the dangers of overindulgence and addiction, she handed him a small vial of deep indigo Dreamless Sleep.

Graves dutifully used both wand and incantation ( _Reducio_ ) to shrink the potions down to a suitably portable size and pocketed them while Bennett reached for ink and quill to write down the proper dosages on parchment for him.

"We will leave the discussion of Wolfsbane Decoction and other necessary precautions until later in the month. Oh, and there was one more thing," she said as she handed him the rolled up parchment, careful to avoid physical contact. Bennet turned and reached between the cabinet and the wall. "Courtesy of President Picquery. I suggest you learn to utilise it."

In her hands was a cane. Beautifully crafted, in ebony with silver inlay, and with a compartment near the handle to hold his wand.

_A damned cane._

"I expect to be seeing you tomorrow, Mister Graves," Bennet urged, placing the cane in his reluctant hands. "Good day to you."

With that, she swept out of the room, robes rustling softly, leaving Graves clutching another well-meaning reminder of his ordeal, free to go where he chose for the first time in months.

-

The corridors of MACUSA were never truly empty during office hours (or really any other hours) but the midmorning lull, after the early morning rush but well before the mad dash for the cafeteria at lunchtime, came fairly close. Taking advantage of this fact, Graves made his way through the the Department of Magical Security in relative peace, though not at any particular pace.

He stepped briefly in to his office on the way to the front doors, where he found a bottle of fine-looking Firewhisky and a note from the Madam President, telling him off in no uncertain terms for even considering returning to work on his first day out of the hospital wing. Too clever by half, she was.

Or maybe he was just that predictable.

He stashed the Firewhisky in his liquor cabinet, which was looking rather a lot emptier than he remembered, and left a message on his desk for whoever would find it requesting that if at all possible, he should like to arrange a meeting with Mr. Newt Scamander for the following day, and continued towards the lobby.

-

Graves took his lunch at a No-Maj café, enjoying the utter anonymity of it, and spent the better part of the afternoon walking idly through the city.

It was cold and blustery under an iron-grey sky, with biting winds that seemed to find every gap in his woollen coat and treacherous patches of ice on the sidewalk that conspired with his bone-deep fatigue to attempt to send him sprawling, and he soon found himself more than grateful for the President's gift. His muscles burned, and his eyes watered.

It was marvellous.

It was absolutely _amazing_.

As dusk fell, he turned his steps homeward.

-

The closer he got to his apartment block, the harder it became to continue, his heart and footsteps heavy. He was well and truly exhausted, but the true obstacle lay not in his bruised and battered body, but in the haunted corners of his mind.

The restlessly fluttering part of his psyche that whispered incessantly of danger and defeat grew ever louder as he approached the front door. It asked him _why_ , why he would voluntarily return to the site of such pain and fear, what he thought he stood to gain, why he would even bother. Those questions met fierce resistance in the form of the logic and stubbornness of his conscious mind, along with a frighteningly ferocious desire to reclaim what was his, to not be chased away from his own home by memories and mirages.

Graves pressed on.

He suppressed a shudder from something entirely different than the mounting chill as he opened the front door, nodding perfunctorily to the somewhat less than inconspicuous Auror obviously assigned to guard duty who was slouching in the entryway.

Climbing the stairs one step at a time, he eventually arrived outside his own door on the fifth floor, winded and utterly worn out. Unlocking the door with a carefully whispered _Alohomora_ (Merlin knows where his keys were at this point), he stopped with his hand resting on the door knob.

' _Why, why, why?_ ' asked the restless unease.

' _Because it's mine_ ,' growled the fury.

Taking a deep breath, Graves pushed open the door, entered, and all but slammed it shut behind him. Doing his best to ignore the trapped feeling the sound of the closing door elicited, he marched briskly down the hallway.

He bypassed both the living room and the master bedroom.

Instead, he entered the sparsly furnished spare bedroom, where he deposited his newly acquired collection of potions on the empty desk.

Removing his shoes and coat and sitting down on the bed, Graves examined the parchment Bennett had penned regarding the proper dosage of the various concoctions. Too tired to do anything else, and confident his exhaustion would ensure a reasonably deep sleep, he chose to settle for the strictly required Blood-Regenerating Potion. He measured out the requisite amount of the rust-coloured, syrupy liquid into the cap of its container and downed it in one go.

Graves fell asleep as the cloying sweetness of the potion gave way to a faintly metallic aftertaste.

-

When he woke with a shout some two hours later, from dreams of darkness and pain, of blood and moonlight and his own smirking face, breath catching and heart pounding, he swallowed is pride and a generous mouthful of Dreamless Sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The summary is starting to feel like false advertising with how slowly this is moving, but I feel fairly confident that this chapter has completed the required build-up. There will definitely be Newt-Graves interactions in the next chapter!
> 
> I hit a slight snag when I realised/remembered that the wolfsbane potion didn't actually exist until quite recently, 1970's or so, so in it's place I've established the wolfsbane decoction, a cruder predecessor if you will. Just pointing it out so you don't think it's a weird typo/translation thing, I'll get to the details of it in the future. It also led to a bunch of research into canon potions and potions ingredients in general.
> 
> On the subject of translation and word choice, I know my English is very British in nature, and coupled with the fact that I'm Swedish and know very little about americanisms, I probably get things wrong here and there, so feel free to tell me if anything really sticks out as odd. For example, just in this chapter, I had to rewrite part of a paragraph when I remembered that American front doors open inward, not outward as I'm used too :P


	4. Starting Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, now with actual Newt! Also Tina, and a custom made magical beast.

At seven a.m. the following day (which _was_ a Thursday, thank you very much), Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security and Head Auror at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, entered MACUSA headquarters with an air of purpose.

He'd slept well, unsurprisingly, after his supremely potent nightcap, but woken early and hungry. He'd made his way to the kitchen with low expectations, and thoroughly blessed whoever had thought to stock his pantry in preparation for his return. After a breakfast that consisting in no small part of copious amounts of strong, dark coffee, augmented with a splash of Invigoration Draught, Graves proceeded to the bathroom to freshen up, where he had finally come face to face with his own reflection.

Gaunt and pale-faced, with dark circles under his eyes, he'd found that he looked decidedly worse for wear, but overshadowing all signs of physical exhaustion were his newly acquired scars.

They had healed well, at least.

Four parallel gouges now ran down the left side of his face, the first starting just below the hairline, neatly bisecting his eyebrow and continuing below the eye, almost reaching the corner of his mouth. The remaining three were incrementally lower, shorter, and closer together, fanning out towards his temple. They were surgical in their precision, disturbingly deliberate. Far from the violent outburst of a wild animal, much more a desire to mark.

To claim.

To make people stare.

_Let them stare_ , he'd thought grimly as he left for work. Trying to hide would at best only prolong the inevitable, and at worst cause even more suspicion. Concealment charms tended to take poorly to scars of such a dark nature, anyway, and he had neither the patience nor the resources for No-Maj cosmetic options.

Of the few officers and sundry administrative staff he encountered en route to his office, most looked like they considered wishing him a moderately warm welcome back to service, but thought better of it, either due to his generally unapproachable demeanour, or the sight of his grisly scar. Nothing new there, other than the scar, but a small part of him, which had been growing ever louder in recent months, suggested snidely that maybe if he'd been just a little bit more approachable in the past, things would have been different.

He told that part to shut up, unless it had something actually useful to contribute.

Some looked like they wanted to pretend they hadn't seen him. Also nothing new. He was more than happy to return the favour.

"Mr. Graves, sir!" exclaimed a voice from behind him, just as he reached his office door. It was accompanied by a flurry of movement and hurried footsteps.  
Ever the enthusiastic exception, was Porpentina Goldstein.

"Goldstein," Graves nodded, turning to face her.

Flustered but determined, Tina stopped a couple of steps short of Graves, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I, well, I just wanted to say I'm so glad to see you back, sir, truly!" She valiantly met his eyes, even as her posture spoke of her nervousness. "I, um, we've all been so worried ever since we found you, and, and the Mediwitches didn't know if you'd make it, and, I'm rambling, aren't I?"

"Just a bit, Goldstein."

"Sorry, sir, I- I didn't mean to bother you, I just wanted to, you know, tell you... that."

"It's fine, Goldstein. In fact, there were a few things I wanted to speak to you about. Do you have a moment?"

"Me, sir? Well, yes, of course!"

Gesturing for Tina to follow, Graves entered his office. He slowly rounded his desk, which had somehow already started to fill up with various paperwork again, and gestured for Tina to take a seat in the visitor's chair. She did so with obvious reluctance, as if expecting him to deliver her a notice of termination, which, considering the subject he was about to breach, was perhaps not all that surprising. Graves himself remained standing.

"I was given to understand by President Picquery's retelling of events that you're no longer an Auror."

Composure crumbling slightly, Tina nevertheless stubbornly retained eye contact. It was getting strangely unnerving.

"That is true, sir," she said in a small voice.

"Can you tell me how that came about?"

Tina looked like she'd really rather be doing just about anything else, such as face down a ring of black market potion's smugglers on her own, or complete long-overdue paperwork, but continued nonetheless.

"I, well, I was keeping an eye on the Second Salemers, sir, you know, the witch hunters?"

Graves nodded. He was well aware of the agenda of the New Salem Philanthropic Society, a fancy name for a despicable cause that reminded all American witches and wizards of a not so distant past they all dearly wished they could forget.

Taking a deep breath, Tina recounted how she'd violently confronted the abusive No-Maj adoptive mother of the later to be discovered Obscurial, and the immediate aftermath of her actions. The astounding amount of required Obliviations, the reprimands regarding both the breach of the Statute of Secrecy and of conduct unbecoming of an officer of the law, and how she had ultimately been relieved of her position as an Auror.

"I know I overreacted, and I know it was the wrong thing to do, that I put us all at risk, but I just couldn't do nothing, sir. She was hurting him real bad, and I just, lost it, I guess..."

Silence filled the office as Graves mulled over Tina's words.

"I want you to know, Goldstein, that it wasn't me who took your badge," he told her finally.

A puzzled frown twisted Tina's features momentarily, before horrified understanding took its place.

"That long, sir?" she whispered.

"That long, indeed, Goldstein," he sighed.

_And probably a good deal longer than that._

"And while I cannot pretend that what you did was not indeed a reckless breach of the Statute of Secrecy, as well a highly questionable action in general, in the light of recent findings, I find myself wondering if maybe my imposter didn't have ulterior motives for your demotion."

Connecting the dots quickly, Tina sat up straighter. "You mean he was worried that I'd find out about Credence?"

"Exactly. I think he was concerned that you would disrupt his plans regarding the Obscurial by interfering with the Second Salemers, and used your impulsive actions as an excuse to have you removed from the field. These facts, together with your recent heroic, though equally reckless, actions on behalf of our community, makes me think that a change of occupation is in order."

Tina was regarding him with a fierce combination of wary doubt and tentative hope, even as she seemed to shrink back into her chair, as if bracing for violent rejection.

_Predator or prey, Tina, make up your mind._

"Are you saying what I think your saying, sir?" she asked suspiciously.

"I'm saying that I think you're wasted on desk duty and paperwork in the Wand Permit Division, Goldstein. You deserve better than that."

Silence once again made itself the most prominent presence in the room, as apparently stunned into speechlessness, Tina struggled to formulate a reply.

"I don't know what to say, sir," she said at length. "Except, well, thank you. So much! You won't regret this, I swear."

"Make sure I don't, Goldstein," he replied wryly. "I'll have the necessary paperwork drawn up shortly, and get you your Auror badge. In the meantime, I'd like you to get started on compiling a report on what's been going on in my absence. Start from today and work your way backwards."

"Right away, sir!" Recognising the subtle dismissal, the newly reinstated Auror rose from her chair and marched towards the door with spring in her step.

"One more thing, Goldstein," Graves spoke up just before she reached it. Tina stopped, but didn't turn.

"This is not a bribe. I'm not asking you to forget, or ignore what you must know about the results of my captivity. Don't let loyalty, or anything else, cloud your judgement."

_Like fear, or pity._

"I- I didn't think it was, sir. I don't think you would do something like that." Appearing to steel herself, she looked over her shoulder at him.

"And sir? You deserve better, too."

With a soulful look and a flutter of robes, she was gone.

-

Over the course of the morning, as he dealt with each visitor to his office, who came with messages, questions, and halfhearted well-wishes, Graves observed much the same behaviour in his Auror subordinates as he had seen in his caretakers in the medical wing - the fearful, the distrustful, and the pitying.

Additionally, he discovered to his discontent, the Auror department was home to a rare fourth breed - those who didn't look away, who defiantly held their ground, who stood closer than strictly necessary, as if to challenge his return.

He supposed it was only to be expected. Being an Auror was dangerous work, and you didn't get very far in their chosen profession if you didn't learn to deal with, and even thrive in hazardous environments. It didn't make it any less unnerving. Presumably, these Aurors were the ones who had been involved in his rescue, and Graves knew that it was foolish in the extreme to have expected anything else.

Of course they wouldn't want a dangerous beast as a superior officer, no matter what President Picquery had promised, or threatened, as the case may well be. 

With every intrusion into his domain, no matter the attitude of each particular caller, Graves felt more and more on edge, hounded and cornered. As it neared lunchtime, he decided he'd had enough and announced to the administrative officer that he would only be taking calls of particular import for the rest of the day, and everything else could wait.

Slumped in his chair, trying to find some comfort in the quiet of his office, Graves's gaze fell again on his decidedly sorry-looking liquor cabinet, and rather than the calm he was striving for, he felt irritation building. As if it wasn't enough that the man had abducted, imprisoned, and impersonated him, Grindelwald had apparently also seen fit to help himself to Graves's personal stash of fine spirits. And not only that, he noticed now that he was paying attention, there were plenty of other things wrong with his personal space, too.

Books were out of place on the shelves, or were missing altogether, his ink and quill were not where he usually kept them, the furniture was shifted ever so slightly, ornaments askew...

It felt like someone else's office.

As he was pacing the length of the room, observing all the little changes that made the room feel wrong, there was a knock on the door. It must be important, if they approached after he'd asked not to be disturbed.

"Enter," Graves called out reluctantly, pausing mid-stride and taking a calming breath to reign in his temper. He remained facing the back wall as the door creaked open.

"Director Graves?" asked a soft voice in a British accent. "I was told you wanted to see me? I'm Newt Scamander."

Turning sharply, Graves tried very hard to wipe the angry tension from his face as the man solely responsible for his rescue entered his office. He feared he'd been wholly unsuccessful when Scamander paused in the open door and regarded him much like one would a dangerous feral creature. He braced himself for the inevitable hostility he was surely about to see on Scamander's face, saviour or no.

Strangely, he found himself being regarded with something akin to wry fondness as Scamander took in the tense lines of his form.

"Oh, of course!" Scamander muttered, eyes flicking briefly to Graves's face. "Maybe I should come back later? I know newly turned werewolves often feel unsettled by strangers in their territory, and I wouldn't want to bother you unnecessarily, you see."

Silence ruled supreme once more as Graves struggled to process Scamander's words.

It should have been insulting.

Outrageous, even hurtful, to hear of his condition spoken of in such a casual way, like one would apologise for aggravating someone's headache by speaking too loudly.

It should have been the last thing he wanted to hear from the man to whom he owed his life, but after all the fearful avoidance, every suspicious glare, each aborted condolence, it was somehow the most wonderful thing anyone had said to him in the week since his rescue.

"Director Graves? Do you want me to leave?" Scamander calmly asked again, still stood in the doorway.

He settled his gaze somewhere in the vicinity of Graves's chin, like so many others, but there was something different about his demeanour. Unlike everyone else who avoided looking him in the eye, Scamander's posture was relaxed, open, not nervously poised for flight, searching for the nearest route of escape. Neither did he give off the threatening air of suppressed violence that those who did meet his gaze exuded.

It was calming.

Comforting, even.

"No, of course not, Mister Scamander, please-" His rage confusedly fizzling out, he fumbled for the necessary words to reply. "I mean, I would greatly appreciate a moment of your time. I have a lot to thank you for, it would seem."

Smiling a cryptic smile, as if celebrating some private victory, Scamander closed the door and strode slowly but confidently forward.

"It will be my pleasure," he said. "And just 'Newt' will do."

-

Graves didn't quite know what he had expected from the man of whom the President had spoken so highly, but whatever it had been, he felt like Newt Scamander defied many, if not all of them.

Graves saw a tall man, probably taller than himself if he'd only draw himself up from his perpetually hunched posture, slight of build, with sharp features. He held himself in the way of someone who wished to be overlooked, but his bright auburn hair and spectacularly blue woollen coat made that seem like a vain hope. Maybe not 'wished' then, but was perhaps content not to be the centre of attention? 

Not the model image of the expected gallant hero, at any rate.

He was soft-spoken and polite ( _or maybe that was just being British?_ ) and was quick to shift credit away from himself when Graves tried to thank him for his services to MACUSA in general, and himself in particular. To hear him tell it, it seemed mere chance and serendipity that he had caught and unveiled the most dangerous dark wizard of their age, and narrowly averted disaster on a global scale, and it was all really someone, or something, else's achievement, truly.

"I was only really trying to get my creatures back, and to prove they weren't to blame for the attacks. If Grindelwald hadn't slipped up when interrogating Tina and me, I don't really know what would have happened," Scamander finished with a self-deprecating smile.

"Slipped up how, exactly?" Graves asked, curious to hear what kind of mistake had been the first step towards the madman's downfall.

"He asked if an Obscurus without a host was _useless_ ," Newt replied with surprising vehemence. "As if it were a mere tool, a _weapon_. Of course I didn't know then and there what it really meant, but it did make me very suspicious. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing people tend to ask."

"I don't imagine it would be, no," Graves agreed. No wonder he'd tried to cover his tracks with an execution order - it would have been very hard to explain why the Director of Magical Security had wanted to know the usefulness of an Obscurus, especially considering the fact that they were considered extinct, or as extinct as a non-being could be.

"Later, in the subway tunnels, I recognised his rhetoric. We've been hearing a lot of it in Britain in recent years," he said with a resigned sigh. "It really was a lucky guess, though, it's not like I _knew_ it was him. It just didn't seem like something the second in command of the MACUSA would say."

_No one else seemed to think so_ , Graves almost said. They had seemed perfectly content to believe he'd gone rogue, fully prepared to curse him into oblivion. Instead he listened to Scamander tell him fondly how the Swooping Evil ( _charming name_ ) and the Thunderbird ( _Frank, apparently_ ) had been instrumental to the capture of Grindelwald and the Obliviation of the public.

"Oh, I can't take credit for that!" Scamander protested once more when Graves tried again to thank the man for his part in his rescue. "That was all Sally's doing. She's a Shade Prowler, which is really a dreadfully ominous name for a very noble creature, if you ask me. They're related to Kneazles - excellent trackers, with an intrinsic affinity for detecting magical signatures and tracing magical bonds."

"Such as that between a wizard and his wand?" Graves asked, recalling President Picquery's account of the events.

"That is how she tracked you down, yes," Scamander confirmed, radiating pride.

"Well, you should tell her thanks for me, then," Graves said softly.

It was impossible not to notice how the Magizoologist seemed infinitely more animated when talking about the creatures in his care, as opposed to his own accomplishments. It was pleasant to be in such guileless company, and loath as he was to bring it to an end, Graves felt at a loss as to how to prolong the conversation. Surely Scamander had better things to do with his time than sit in Graves's dreary office and go over the events of the last few days for what must be the hundredth time by now.

"Would you like to meet her?" Scamander asked suddenly.

Apparently he didn't.

"No, sorry, I don't suppose you would, dangerous magical creatures and all, probably against the law, et cetera, perhaps you should forget I asked-"

"You know," Graves said, "I think I'd like that very much."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guh, this chapter did not want to come together >.< I had a beginning, a middle, and an end thought out, but the bridging passages just wouldn't cooperate. And then Tina wanted her job back. I just hope it doesn't feel as awkward to read as it felt to write...
> 
> Oh, and just in case it appears contradictory, be advised that Graves's evaluation of how people are reacting to him and why is not necessarily always accurate. While he might feel like everyone who looks at him strangely, or pityingly, must surely know of his new beastly attributes, that isn't necessarily so. The majority, at least so far, are most likely only acting shiftily or sympathetically because they feel guilty about not noticing that he had been replaced, or because they feel sorry for his ordeal in general, not because they know, or even suspect, that he's been turned into a werewolf.


	5. Realisations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is exhausting, and chapters appear to just be getting longer and longer, for some indiscernible reason, thus the lengthy delay.
> 
> Also, it is actually quite difficult to imagine, and then put into words, a tactful discussion about how to cope with suddenly being a werewolf - who would have thought, huh?
> 
> In the end, me, and by extension Newt, chose a very roundabout way to breach the topic, with the help of a few of his creatures.

Graves had known, of course, in the academic way that one might know that the desert is hot and the tundra is cold without ever having visited either, that the suitcase in which Scamander apparently carried his magical creatures must be significantly bigger on the inside. It had to be, if it had at some point contained a Thunderbird, as well as Scamander himself, in any reasonable degree of comfort.

However, just like such theoretical knowledge of relative temperatures does not properly convey the relentless scorching of the desert sun, or the biting blizzard winds of the north, this abstract notion of disproportionate scale did precious little to prepare him for the sheer scope of Newt Scamander's portable sanctuary for magical beasts.

Descending down a steep ladder, following Scamander's lead with what he thought was an almost worrying lack of hesitation on his part, he was surprised to find himself not in a wide open space, where one might presumably keep large and quite possibly illegally dangerous (or perhaps merely dangerously illegal) magical creatures, but in a cramped shed.

It appeared to be a study of some description, or perhaps a workshop, which displayed that particular lack of organisation that spoke of genius and insanity in equal measure.

Every available surface, as well as some not so available ones, including most of a narrow camp bed, was cluttered with research notes and potion brewing equipment, with books and maps, and all manner of tools and trinkets.

Potted plants occupied much of the surface of a window-facing desk. The walls were either made up of chests of drawers from floor to ceiling, or were covered in notes and sketches of beasts and their habits, or both. From the rafters hung drying leaves next to nets and cages and a pair of dragon skin work gloves. An old No-Maj typewriter stood forlornly on a narrow shelf.

Well, so far nothing seemed immediately illegal or life threatening - and wasn't that an uncharitable thought.

Graves decided then and there that he was not here as Director of Magical Security, looking to keep up the law at all costs, but simply as Percival Graves, tired and hurting, and so very grateful for this opportunity to spend a little more time with this peculiar man who made him feel like he didn't have to pretend, if only for a short while. He was not going to ruin that by raving about regulations, threatening Scamander's creatures with seizure, or worse, in their ( _his?_ ) own home over technicalities. He deserved better than that.

Graves _owed_ him that, and more. So much more.

Scamander was stood a respectable distance away, watching attentively as Graves took in his new surroundings, once more smiling that small, privately victorious smile.

"This way, Director," he said, and walked out the shed's open door.

Graves followed, and for the first time began to fully realise the true scale of Newt Scamander's ambition.

Everywhere he looked, he saw a different microcosm, meticulously crafted with charms and spells, and likely a good deal of manual labour, to suit the needs of any and all types of magical creatures imaginable.

Here a vast snow covered expanse, howling chilling winds, there a desert of majestically undulating sand dunes, shifting in a dry breeze. Not far from them, a verdant savannah, trees and bushes surrounding a sheltered watering hole, and beyond that, a deep lake with a cascade of individual floating spheres of water gently circling above its surface.

They walked past a curiously detached piece of land, crowned by a tree in autumn colours, the earth itself containing a hollow. In it, a wary Niffler rested half buried in its treasure, much like a dragon guarding its hoard, and protecting it no less jealously. Its sparkling eyes followed Graves hungrily, like a particularly obvious pickpocket. 

They passed a grass covered hill spotted with burrows, where strange patterns had been trodden out, flattening the grass in intricate concentric circles.

They stopped briefly at a small tree, the twigs of which seemed to wave and squeak. Bowtruckles, Graves realised as Scamander started to speak softly to the tiny green-leaved branches.

There were five of them, all chattering animatedly at the Magizoologist in what might be have been a language, or might just have been the excited chirps and creaks of magical stick insects, but Scamander nodded and hummed encouragingly either way. A sixth one clambered out of a pocket on the front of Scamander's coat and made its way to his shoulder, where it dug its twig-like appendages in firmly and squeaked back at its brethren across the distance. 

"Not going back today either, Pickett?" Scamander asked wryly, addressing the one stubbornly attached to his person. It screeched back at him in an affronted tone that even Graves could interpret, vigorously shaking its head, leaves fluttering in agitation.

"We are going to have to discuss this at some point, you know," Scamander sighed in resignation, but made no move to actually dislodge the creature, who was still chittering angrily, now gesturing sharply in Graves's direction. It did not look like it was pleased to see him.

" _Pickett!_ " Scamander exclaimed, sounding vaguely scandalised. "Now _that_ was uncalled for."

Apparently he'd just been insulted by a twig.

"While I'm flattered by your concern for my safety-"

A twig with more sense than its keeper, by the sounds of it, Graves thought ruefully.

"- but I told you before we came here that he's not the same person, remember?"

_Oh._

"I know you're worried, and that's perfectly understandable, but I won't have you insulting Director Graves over something he didn't even do, alright?"

The Bowtruckle quietened down at that, but remained firmly attached to Scamander's lapel, glaring at Graves as aggressively as a four inch green twig could manage as they left the tree behind and continued towards whatever habitat a Shade Prowler called home.

"Sorry about Pickett," Scamander said with what sounded like genuine contrition. "He's been a bit overprotective recently, ever since Grindelwald caught us."

Not really having taken offence at the misgivings of the diminutive creature in the first place, Graves felt a bit at a loss at the sincere apology.

"That's, well, that's quite alright, Mister Scamander," he managed. "He's not the first to react in that manner, and I'm sure he won't be the last, either."

Rather than reassured, Scamander appeared quite bothered by his statement, a melancholy frown stealing across his face.

"That doesn't make it any better, Director," he murmured. "It's not fair of people to blame you for things outside of your control, and you shouldn't have to humour them. It's not right."

There was pain behind those words. Buried deep, perhaps, or numbed through countless repetition, but still keenly felt, lending passion and conviction to his speech.

He sounded like someone speaking from experience.

"No, I don't suppose it is," Graves conceded, heaving a sigh.

The realist in him grumbled that expecting the _right thing_ from people generally only led to disappointment, but he would not deny that it was vindicating to have someone vocally arguing his case for once - possibly in more ways than one?

Was it naïve to think that just maybe, in Scamander's eyes, things outside his control extended to his newly acquired beastly tendencies? Surely he wouldn't have been allowed into this sanctuary if Scamander thought him a danger to his charges.

Then again, perhaps Scamander's judgement was not fully to be trusted on the matter, because that _did_ look an awful lot like a Nundu over there...

_Right, none of that, now._

"Either way, Mister Scamander, I do accept your apology, and I apologise in turn for spooking your little friend, rightfully or not," Graves said, hoping to redirect the conversation back towards its previous levity.

He was pleased to see his efforts rewarded with the frown disappearing from Scamander's face.

"I'm sure Pickett is relieved to hear it. _Aren't you_ , Pickett?" Scamander chided his little companion, poking the Bowtruckle gently. It shuffled from side to side sulkily, but eventually looked over in Graves's direction and waved its leaves at him in a vaguely placating manner.

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?"

The creature's only response was a rude noise.

"Utterly incorrigible, you are..." Scamander groused, with more fondness than true irritation. "And speaking of incorrigibility, Director Graves, I'm quite certain I told you to call me Newt."

"That you did," Graves admitted with a chuckle, surprised at how privileged that made him feel. "I'll do my best to mend my ways. Perhaps..." _In for a sickle, in for a galleon._. "Perhaps you would do me the honour of returning the favour?"

The victorious smile was back in force. 

"The honour is all mine, I assure you," Sca- _Newt_ grinned, just as they reached a section of the suitcase that was filled with tall pines and spruces on rough ground, gently sprinkled with snow. Meltwater fed a small stream that leapt and twisted around and over moss-covered rocks and fallen branches, and the sun glinted in the clear water, casting fickle reflections all around.

"Percival, meet Sally!" Newt announced, gesturing invitingly towards the tree line.

At first glance, the coniferous forest seemed completely empty. Quiet and serene, with an untamed sort of beauty, but quite devoid of anything even remotely deserving of the name Shade Prowler.

Was it very small? Was it hiding somewhere?

While Graves was scanning the area for any hint of movement, Newt had wandered over to a tree stump just inside the habitat and taken a seat. Picking up a pine cone from the forest floor, he tossed it at a large rock by the edge of the stream. The pine cone sailed through the air and hit the rock with a dry, crackling thud, and had not even come fully to rest before _something_ sent it flying again. It careened off the rock, hitting the water with a splash, and Graves watched as it drifted slowly downstream.

Newt's eyes were not on the pine cone, however, but on the rock.

Following his gaze, Graves noticed that the air above the rock was shimmering ever so slightly, dancing and wavering like over a burning candle flame.

_Invisible, then? Interesting._

"Go closer," Newt suggested. "Slowly. Let her get a sense of you."

Inching gingerly closer to the rock where the Shade Prowler was presumably located, Graves marvelled once more a his utter lack of hesitation. It was a very poor trait in an Auror, but Merlin, it felt good to not be suspicious for once.

Just for a bit longer.

He cold spend the rest of his working life (however long or short that turned out to be) being ruthless, jaded Director Graves of Magical Security, but right now, he could just be Percival, walking blindly towards something new and unknown, revelling in the feeling of just letting go, trusting someone else to make the important decisions.

Right here, right now, in present company, he could allow himself to see the unknown as an opportunity instead of a risk, something to appreciate, not to fear.

At Newt's suggestion, Graves stopped a few feet away from the rock, waiting.

Moments later, the shimmering was on the move, and very occasionally a footstep could be heard, rustling through the undergrowth, or sending a pebble skidding over the hard ground.

A twig snapped.

It didn't sound like it was very small at all.

Closer and closer, the noises came, before stopping right in front of him.

He felt very much like he was being watched and judged by an unseen set of eyes when suddenly a cold nose was pressed against the back of his wand hand. A rough tongue gave his fingers a cautious lick, and where before had been only hazy air, Graves now saw a majestic-looking feline, with dappled silver-grey fur that was still somewhat see-through.

"I knew she'd like you," said Newt from somewhere behind him, sounding pleased. "They don't voluntarily drop their Disillusionment for just anyone, you know."

Graves did not, in fact, _know_ , but was eminently prepared to take Newt's word for it. His assessment also seemed to be in agreement with the behaviour of the until recently invisibly beast, as Sally the Shade Prowler proceeded to rub her head against his hands with determination, while walking possessive laps around his legs.

The size of a lion, but more reminiscent of a snow leopard in shape, she had the tufted ears of a lynx, large and powerful-looking paws, and a long, graceful tail that she held slightly elevated, the tip gently curling up and over her back.

Her eyes, from what Graves had managed to glimpse, were a startling shade of blue, and her fur, dappled and hazy, defied definition. It appeared to constantly be changing colour ever so slightly - hinting now of snowy white, now steely grey, now shifting towards tawny gold - and the darker spots seemed nigh invisible.

"She's beautiful," Graves exhaled quietly.

"Yes. She is," Newt said simply, reverently, as he approached the pair. He sank down on his knees next to them and gently stroked the Shade Prowler's flank as she passed.

"They're almost impossible to spot before you become aware of their presence, through sound or smell or touch, or by intentionally tracking them. You have to expect to see them, or the Disillusionment will prevent your conscious mind from registering them. Once you've seen an individual once, it gets easier to spot them in the future, though, especially if they want you to see them."

"You see her all the time, I take it?"

"As long as she's not trying to ambush me for fun," Newt chuckled with an affectionate smile. "We've known each other for a long time now."

"I found her when she was just a cub, when I was hiking through northern Scandinavia a couple of years ago," Newt continued, unprompted, as Graves considered the slightly unnerving idea of an ambush by the creature currently circling him, playful or not.

"I'm not exactly sure which side of the border I was on at the time, but judging from lack of Troll sightings, I'd probably left Norway by then," Newt explained in a matter-of-fact tone, indicating that he felt that the relative abundance of Trolls in Northern Europe ought to be common knowledge.

 _It probably should_ , Graves reflected. It would drastically improve the survival rate of hikers, if nothing else.

"Her pack had been slaughtered by poachers. She was the only one left."

Stunned by the stoic delivery, Graves said nothing.

In retrospect, he should have realised it wouldn't have been a cheerful tale. A man with such respect for all creatures great and small would hardly have taken a wild animal away from its home if it was not absolutely necessary.

The heartbreak was clear on Newt's face, though his voice remained calm. Sally, as if sensing his distress, and perhaps she truly did, made a detour from her orbit around Graves to gently butt her forehead against Newt's. He smiled and scratched her behind the ears, murmuring quiet words of reassurance. She gave his nose a lick before circling around him and back to Graves in a graceful figure-of-eight.

"They're hunted mainly for their pelts, for obvious reasons," Newt continued after a moment's silence, still subdued but without the immediate vulnerability from a moment ago. "It's not quite capable of true invisibility, like Demiguise fur, but it works like a particularly potent Disillusionment Charm, without the traceability. Very popular among smugglers, as I'm sure you can imagine."

He could, all to well. Even a weak Disillusionment Charm was often enough to cause someone to disregard a crate, a door, or even a person, if the observer was not actively looking for the object in question, and stronger ones were almost as good as actual invisibility. Untraceable ones sounded like the stuff of nightmares.

Not to mention the loss of life involved.

It was startling, not to mention humbling, to realise that he'd never really thought of it like that before, for all the trafficking of magical creatures, and smuggling of parts thereof that he'd investigated over the years. Now, in the presence of so many fantastic beasts, and a man who so obviously cared very deeply for their individual wellbeing, with no regard for their potential monetary value, it seemed so wrong, so very petty to ever have considered them merely numbers on a shipping manifest, or the results of a raid, to be catalogued and be disposed of, their only worth that of a piece of evidence, on par with a written witness statement.

"I... " Graves began, but faltered. Words seemed inadequate. _I, what?_

'I apologise?'

_'I'm sorry?'_

Platitudes and excuses. He'd had quite enough of those in the last few days.

In the lull in conversation, Sally had settled down on the forest floor, stretched out next to Newt, and rather than attempt further inane verbal communication, Graves decided to follow her lead. Slowly, he made himself comfortable on the opposite side of the Shade Prowler, not wanting to crowd his host. He sat in silence, hand resting in Sally's shimmering fur, ready to listen if Newt decided to tell him anything more.

An indeterminably long moment passed, during which the only sounds were the gentle trickling of water in the stream and the steady rumbling purr emanating from deep in Sally's throat. Newt's hand joined his on the Shade Prowler's back, much to her obvious pleasure, the purring increasing in volume. It was a comfortable silence, relaxed and uncomplicated, and Graves felt assured of his continued welcome.

At length, Newt spoke up again, eyes on both their hands, inches apart, fingers entangled in the beast's fur.

"I've always found it easier to understand beasts than humans," he said softly. "I find them to be honest in their behaviour in a way that people rarely are."

His expression, when Graves lifted his gaze from the creature separating them, was contemplative, focused.

"When a beast is angry, or happy, or hurting, they will let you know, as long as you have eyes to see," he continued, slowly, carefully, as if weighing every word on delicate scales, to make sure it carried the meaning he intended for it to convey.

This was important.

"People, on the other hand... Their words say one thing, and their bodies another. I never know which signals to follow. They'll say everything is fine, but their posture is stiff and threatening. They'll speak of closeness and affection, but without inviting contact. Their behaviour shows what they're really feeling even when they don't realise it themselves, or won't admit it, and it... bothers me."

Newt paused and took a deep breath, and appeared to come to a decision.

"And I think that maybe you've felt that way, too, now."

It wasn't quite a question, but not wholly a statement, either.

Side by side with the first person not to pull away from him, however subtly, in an isolated sanctuary for injured and abused magical creatures, with only a contented Shade Prowler and a sulking Bowtruckle as possible witnesses, it felt very much like an invitation. An invitation to talk, to share, to understand.

An invitation which Percival Graves, newly turned werewolf, decided to accept.

"I feel like I'm going mad," he groaned, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "It's like there's a part of me that sees the world in a completely different way now, and I have no say in the matter whatsoever. Like someone changed the rules of the game without telling me, and now I'm losing, and I don't even know what I'm doing wrong."

Once he'd begun, it was hard to stop.

He described, as best as he could manage, how he felt himself affected by things that had never bothered him before, by things he couldn't even always identify, and how that only made him angrier. How even when he _could_ pinpoint what was bothering him, it seemed to make no sense. How it bothered him that people seemed to fear him even now, regardless of the phase of the moon, as if they thought he'd already lost all sense of right and wrong, that he was liable to lash out violently at the slightest provocation.

How he worried that maybe those people were right.

How he feared becoming something he'd never wanted to be. A danger to others, when all he had ever wanted was to serve and protect.

Through it all, Newt remained silent, listening attentively. Never interrupting or questioning, he waited patiently for Graves to put his thoughts in order, and give voice to those thoughts.

When Graves eventually ran out of words, his voice had turned rough and his throats felt tight, constricted by barely restrained emotion. He was breathing heavily, hand clenching and unclenching in the Shade Prowler's fur, who remained a comforting weight against his thigh. He was infinitely grateful for her grounding, nonjudgmental presence. She purred soothingly and rested her chin on his knee.

Soul thus laid bare, he waited tensely for Newt to speak.

"First of all, Percival," Newt began, "above anything else, there is one thing you need to understand, and I mean truly understand."

Suppressing a spike of unease, fearing damnation, no matter how accepting the Magizoologist seemed, Graves steeled himself for whatever would come next.

"A werewolf is only inherently dangerous to humans on the night of the full moon," Newt said simply.

Graves knew this, of course he did, _everyone_ did, yet somehow there was a conviction to the way Newt spoke the words that made it sound like more than a simple fact, like the correct answer to an exam question, acknowledged and dismissed in the same breath.

When Newt said it, it sounded like _truth._

"At any other time of the month, you are no more a threat, nor any less so, than any other witch or wizard of your capabilities, and no less in control of your actions, and anyone who thinks otherwise is ignorant or misinformed at best, and at worst wilfully and maliciously perpetuating harmful prejudices."

Although his words bordered on challenging, suffused with righteous indignation, Newt's tone was as even and gentle as ever. His voice was pitched low and comforting, the way one would speak to a frightened animal, which, technically, Graves _was._

And it was _working._

The twin realisations startled a half-choked laugh from his throat, the sound unfamiliar to his own ears after so long spent in captivity, pain, and despair. Graves felt lightheaded, almost ill with relief, the sudden release of tension leaving him utterly drained. The laughter caught in his throat, turning into a sob, and he struggled to get his breathing back under control.

"Do you want me to stop, Percival?" Newt asked, in that same calm, understanding voice. "I need you to know that you are free to leave at any point, or tell me to mind my own business, but I think I could help, if you'll let me try." He said nothing more, just waited for Graves to make a decision.

Letting him choose.

Drawing breath after shuddering breath, Graves tried to marshal his thoughts, to get his voice to cooperate.

"No, it's alright, I don't-, I'm fi-"

Graves paused, reconsidered.

"I'm _not_ fine," he scoffed, and it felt strangely liberating to say it out loud. "I am so very far from _fine_ , but no, I don't want to stop."

A few more ragged breaths, another long moment of patient silence.

"I don't know what it is about you, I mean, I've only just met you, but Merlin help me, I really think you could. Help, that is. And I-" He hesitated.

The metaphorical galleon was already spent, but it seemed to have been a wise investment. Perhaps a gamble was in order.

_Double or nothing._

"I trust you." He was surprised to find that he meant it.

Graves lifted his gaze from where his fingers were making a tangled mess of Sally's pristine fur with no small amount of trepidation, and chanced a glance at Newt's face.

Newt, who was smiling brightly at him, as if he'd just been given a wonderful gift.

"Thank you, Percival," he said, locking eyes with him for one deliberate, earnest moment. "I assure you, I will do my utmost to prove myself worthy of that trust."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've more or less accidentally given poor Graves a pretty serious case of hero worship when it comes to Newt... I didn't set out to do so, and I'm not aiming for any sort of co-dependency situation, just in case it looks that way - I fully intend for Graves to make a full recovery. He's just going to need some time, and some help, which Newt is ever so happy to provide.
> 
> Hopefully Graves's dismissal of legal qualms and quite swift progression to a heart-to-heart with Newt seems at least somewhat plausible.
> 
> In other news, this thing is rapidly approaching beating my master thesis for longest thing I've ever written, and I'm not sure how to feel about that ^_^
> 
> I've also started to write some bits and pieces for a Dæmon!AU, which will hopefully see the light of day at some point, and I'm seriously considering writing a companion piece for this fic, to give some insight into how other people, most importantly Newt, are feeling and thinking. Mostly because in Graves's eyes, Newt is starting to look like some kind of heaven-sent saviour who can do no wrong, which is slightly problematic and a bit disturbing, and I feel like I need to see things from Newt's perspective to get a better grip on where this is going.
> 
> As before, any glaring errors, be they language or plot related, or just generally confusing, please feel free to let me know - I'm sure there's loads that could be improved :)


	6. Communication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not dead! And hopefully, neither is this story, though it took a ridiculously long time to get here... I never intended to stop writing, but life had other ideas, beginning with the flu from hell around New Years, then stress around job applications that went nowhere, and then a million other things >.<
> 
> I also think I bit off more than I could chew with some other plotbunnies, and ended up not managing to finish either :/
> 
> Ironically, this chapter, as it reads now, was almost finished way back in January or something, but I felt it was too short, and not quite right in places, and eventually felt like I’d left it too long to come back to. However, the heartwarming amount of kudos and comments this story has gotten in my absence have always reminded me that I really want to continue writing, and I’ve seen and appreciated each and every one, even if I felt too awkward to reply when I had nothing to update with for so long. Special thanks to http://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonCreature for the comment that made me actually dare to post what I had, and if all goes well, keep writing more.
> 
> Better late and short than unfinished and never, I hope? At least the chapter I left off at ended on something that could be construed as an ending of sorts, even if it was never intended as such, so I guess that’s something :P

Silence filled the forest once more in the wake of Newt's solemn proclamation.

It felt slightly surreal to Graves that Newt would be the the one thanking _him_ in this scenario. Surely it ought to be the other way around? What had he done to merit such a response, after all, other than suffer a minor breakdown in the man's calm and understanding presence?

Perhaps it was best not to dwell on the matter, and just be thankful for what he was being given.

Enjoy it while it lasted.

It occurred him that there was probably some aptly beast-related idiom for that, presumably something about not looking gift Hippogriffs in the beak, lest they snap your fingers off for your impertinence. Unless he himself was the Hippogriff in that particular metaphor, in which case the lesson probably went more along the lines of _'Don't bite the fingers off of the brave, selfless person trying to help you, you poor, dumb bastard'._

Yes, that sounded more like it.

Hurting Newt, in any way imaginable, felt at the moment like the single most unappealing thought he'd ever had. Resolving to do nothing of the sort, as long as he could help it, Graves wrested his mind back on track, because if there was a first thing he needed to be told, it stood to reason that there would be at least a second thing, and quite possibly a third as well.

He would do his level best to ensure that Newt would have no reason to regret offering his help, and the least he could do was listen to what the man had to tell him.

"Right, then, so... assuming I do understand that part," Graves began, "which might take a bit of effort. It's not that I don't believe you," he hastened to add, "because I do, I really do. It's just, well..."

Again, words felt woefully insufficient to describe what he wanted to express. Just how do you go about admitting that up until very recently, you'd never really felt the need to question the silent but pervasive stigma surrounding lycanthropy? How those beliefs were now slowly poisoning your mind with doubt and paranoia, whether your conscious mind agreed or not, and you only really had yourself to blame?

While he had never necessarily agreed with the more extreme claims regarding their rumoured unquenchable thirst for violence, full moon or no, and their supposed loss of basic human decency, neither had he thought it very strange to see that werewolves were overrepresented in certain telling crime statistics, or that they struggled to find steady employment.

No one questioned anyone who fired someone if that someone turned out to have been a werewolf. It surprised no one that werewolves nearly always lived in poverty, shunned by their fellow witches and wizards, and when that poverty and isolation led to criminal behaviour, it didn't strike anyone as particularly unexpected either. If anything, it was seen as justification, as a sign that you had been right to be suspicious from the start.

As if desperate circumstances didn't drive people to desperate measures all the time, werewolf or not.

There were plenty of words for this misery, this cage of social boundaries, but Graves lacked both the eloquence and the energy to give them voice. Shoulders slumping in defeat, he shook his head with a bone-weary sigh.

"It's hard, changing people's perceptions," Newt agreed with his unspoken admission. "Even your own."

Quietly amazed by the man's almost Legilimens-like perceptiveness, Graves nodded in agreement, grateful for the out it offered.

"Indeed," he muttered grudgingly, not particularly looking forward to finding out first hand just how hard.

"You're not alone in this, Percival," Newt said softly. "I can promise you that." Seemingly in agreement, Sally let out a determined-sounding huff through her ever-rumbling purring and placed a massive paw on his knee in a decidedly proprietary fashion. Graves reverently stroked her head, while Newt looked on with a fond smile.

"The second thing I wanted to talk to you about is actually part of the reason I wanted to meet Sally," Newt said, looking very pleased with the Shade Prowler's obvious acceptance of Graves. 

If he were completely honest, which he saw no reason not to be at this point, Graves would have to admit that it pleased him too. It brought about an inexplicable sense of belonging that had an equally inexplicable calming effect on his jittery nerves. As is often the way of such things, he hadn't fully realised just how tense he actually was before it had started to recede, like water ebbing at low tide, leaving a peculiar kind of raw, jagged clarity in its wake.

Beside him, Newt looked to be composing himself for another important conversation. His eyes focusing somewhere in the middle distance, he braved the treacherous shallows of Graves's vulnerable psyche, so recently revealed.

"As you've noticed, and more importantly, acknowledged, you see other people's behaviour in a different light now," he began carefully.

Testing the waters.

Graves nodded for him to continue. No sinkholes yet, no hidden shoals of sharp anxiety.

Just as carefully, Newt ventured further. Deeper.

"The werewolf part of you interprets the world, as you said, according to a different set of rules," he elaborated gently, with an admirable degree of factual detachment.

That objectivity made it marginally easier for Graves to suppress the icy spike of unease that shot through him at the mention of _the werewolf part of him._ It put some much needed distance between him and the yawning chasm of uncertainty that had suddenly appeared at his feet and threatened to swallow him whole, should he misstep. He was not ready to brave those depths. If he did, he doubted he'd have the fortitude to claw his way out again.

Shaken, he wrenched his mind away, mentally staggering away from that dark abyss, in search of more solid ground.

"It sees what a wolf would see, and reacts the way a wolf would."

Latching on to Newt's voice like a life line, letting it guide him into safer waters, Graves considered his words.

_A wolf..._

While he couldn't boast any particular wealth of knowledge on the subject of wolves, or really any type of wild beast, magical or otherwise, apart from how they related to matters of the law, that didn't sound too bad, really.

It certainly had a nicer ring to it than 'reacting like a rabid, man-slaughtering monster'. Perhaps things weren't quite as bleak as he had assumed.

"And until you learn to understand, and accept, what the wolf feels, on a conscious level," Newt explained slowly, "you will not be rid of that sense of frustration, that dissonance between what you feel and what you _think_ you should feel."

"It is not, I'm afraid, a wholly unfounded fear to think it might drive one quite mad, if not properly addressed." 

Newt's words were heavy, as if weighed down by the sincerity of the emotions behind them, and by the gravity of experience. Chilling vertigo once more encroached on Graves's precariously balanced emotions, threatening to overturn his hard-won equilibrium, but before that ominous statement had the time to properly sink in, Newt continued.

"This is what I think Sally can help us with,” he said, the joy and animation from earlier slowly but steadily returning to his voice. “While she isn't a lupine, she is a carnivorous, mammalian pack animal of medium size, and I'm confident that there are enough similarities in behaviour to offer a solid basis for comparison."

With that factually overloaded transition, Newt got to his feet and gently urged a slightly reluctant Sally and a somewhat befuddled Graves to do the same. Dusting his hands off in an almost businesslike manner, appearing solidly in his element and radiating a comforting degree of confidence, the Magizoologist took a deep breath and smiled radiantly at them both.

"Now, then, let’s start with the basics - did you happen to notice how she doesn't tend to hold your gaze for extended periods of time when she looks at you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, shorter than I wanted, but finally published, and hopefully with more to come less than, oh, nine months later? :P And now we will hopefully be able to move on from the extremely thin conversational ice that Newt, and by extension me, have been walking on, and on to more tangible things, or at least different emotional things.
> 
> I kinda felt like I got stuck trying to establish a believable rapport between Newt and Percival, in order for anything else to happen, and it was a lot more tricky and exhausting than I thought it would be, which is probably part of why I let this project fall by the wayside. I need Percival to be more comfortable, at least around Newt, for anything at all besides general angst (which really isn’t my cup of tea) to happen, and that isn’t the kind of development that just happens overnight, or the kind of conversation that can be glossed over, so I had to tough it out.
> 
> Anyway, so there we have it, a lot of internal agonising monologing from Percival, and a lot of supportive external monologing from Newt, plus some silent approval from Sally the Shade Prowler.
> 
> Again, thank you so much to everyone whose read this and left kudos and comments while I’ve been emotionally unavailable :) It truly means a lot!

**Author's Note:**

> Not a native English speaker, so there's always the risk of the odd glaring mistake, please feel free to bring any and all to my attention :) General constructive criticism is also very welcome! Like tagging... I ain't got no clue what to put in there... :P
> 
>  
> 
> And, yeah, first fic and all that... be gentle? :3


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